


Heaven's Grief, Hell's Reign

by asparkofgoodness



Series: Whumptober 2019 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley's imagination, Delirium, Drinking, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Talk of torture, Whumptober 2019, post bookshop burning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-26 11:56:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20741819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparkofgoodness/pseuds/asparkofgoodness
Summary: Two bottles of Talisker, a singed book, a mountain of splinter-sharp regrets.  Pick one from the pile and hold it to the light.  Never mind how it cuts into the pad of your thumb and draws blood.  You need to look – you need to bleed – because you fucked up and now he’s gone.  The bar around you blurs at the edges, disappears.  Look.  You deserve to spend the last hours Earth has left examining each chance you had to do it differently.  To save him.Here is one.“That won’t happen.  You’re so clever.  How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”And in his memory, he feels his hesitation, sees himself climb back into the Bentley, toss a cold lie in the angel’s direction, and speed away.Here is what he should have done.





	Heaven's Grief, Hell's Reign

_“I thought of angels choking_ _on their halos._

_Get them drunk on rose water, see_ _how dirty I can get them,_

_Pulling out their fragile teeth and_ _ clip their tiny wings._

_Anything you say can and will be held against you,_

_So only say my name: it_ _will be held against you._

_If Heaven's grief brings Hell's rain,_

_Then I'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday,_

_(I know I'm bad news.)_

_For just one yesterday._

_(I saved it all for you.)_

_I want to teach you a lesson in the worst kind of way._

_Still, I'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday.”_

\- “Just One Yesterday,” Fall Out Boy

Two bottles of Talisker, a singed book, a mountain of splinter-sharp regrets.Pick one from the pile and hold it to the light.Never mind how it cuts into the pad of your thumb and draws blood.You need to look – you need to bleed – because you fucked up and now he’s gone.The bar around you blurs at the edges, disappears.Look.You deserve to spend the last hours Earth has left examining each chance you had to do it differently.To save him.

Here is one.

“That won’t happen.You’re so clever.How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

And in his memory, he feels his hesitation, sees himself climb back into the Bentley, toss a cold lie in the angel’s direction, and speed away.

Here is what he should have done.

“That won’t happen.You’re so clever.”Two quick breaths.Then, “don’t you know what you’ll lose if your lot wins?What you’ll suffer if they don’t?”Because he must not have.If he had known these possibilities, he would have shared in Crowley’s panic.He would have taken him up on his offer.So he must not have known.

Crowley should have shown him: first one and then the other.To show Aziraphale what he had to lose, all Crowley had to do was grab hold of his lapels and pull him forward, finally, to shatter the pristine space that had hovered in between them like a polished pane of glass for six thousand years (_look, don’t touch) _in a collision of lips and teeth.He would have kissed him with the frenzied hunger of a starving man, and Aziraphale would have kissed him back: yes, he would have, after a moment’s baffled stillness._This, _he would think, a hand clutching at the side of Aziraphale’s jaw, _this is what we’ll lose._

And when Aziraphale started to see it, Crowley would tear a shaking hand away from him just long enough to move them to the privacy of the bookshop.Now for the hard part, the lesson that Crowley regretted knowing how to teach, but in this revised narrative, he would have had the courage.Now, Aziraphale’s trust, the light that had once caused Crowley to fall for him, was blinding him to what lay waiting in the shadows.If he did not want to lose Aziraphale, he would have to pull the brimstone darkness out from inside himself, provide the shade needed for Aziraphale to open his eyes.

Guiding with a grip that dug into Aziraphale’s hips, Crowley pushed him backward until his heels and shoulders hit the closest bookshelf.His surprise at the collision broke the kiss, and Crowley stared into his blue eyes, thought a silent apology for what he was about to do, and began.

“They like to pull teeth,” running a thumb across Aziraphale’s lips.“To start out.Slowly, one by one.Clouds your thoughts, that kind of pain does.”Kiss those lips while the words sink in, before he has a chance to object.Worship what they would use against him.

“I saw them, once,” he murmured, biting his way down Aziraphale’s neck, “make a demon drink holy water.”Shivering from the tangle of terror and need, he tugged Aziraphale’s shirt free from his trousers, slid a hand up underneath to touch skin.“You can imagine the burns, from the inside out.”

“Crowley, hush,” low and breathy.Avoiding lingering eye contact, he checked Aziraphale’s face, hoping for and finding lust and fear, substantially more of the former than the latter.Aziraphale swallowed thickly but pressed on, picking at the buttons of Crowley’s vest with nervous fingers._Yes, need me; know what I know; give up your stubborn, misplaced hopes and save yourself.Come with me._With an impatient groan, Crowley shrugged out of his jacket, ripped the vest out from under Aziraphale’s hands and tossed it on the floor, then slid Aziraphale’s coat from his shoulders.

Another kiss, hand sliding into white curls, twirling them around nimble fingers and pulling lightly.“Before they’re even close to finished, some rip their own hair out, patch by patch,” he whispered against Aziraphale’s lips, “mad from the pain.”Aziraphale’s hands fell still, but Crowley moved his own deftly, making quick work of the bowtie, waistcoat, dress shirt.Crowley pressed a reassuring kiss to his lips, reminding him: _I am here, and I am not them, and I hate it, but I have to do this.You need to know this fear._Then, he vanished his own shirt and tie.

By now, Aziraphale had caught on, accepted the words that accompanied Crowley’s eager hands.Their time here was growing steadily shorter, and that first kiss had started something Aziraphale was desperate to finish. 

When bare skin met, Crowley slipped a little, a quiet “angel” escaping his lips in an exhale as he spread his hands on Aziraphale’s strong shoulders.Six thousand years of wanting this, and it had to happen now and in this cruel way.But if not now, then never at all.If not Crowley’s hands, then theirs, and they would make good on his hollow threats.

Aziraphale’s fingers working at his belt jolted him out of his thoughts.“I know,” Aziraphale said, voice heavy with wanting, “I know what they are capable of.Please, you don’t need to explain.I’ve been wanting this, wanting you, for so long, but I never…”Crowley’s pulse thundered in his ears.“While they’re all preoccupied, we can,” a warm hand moving under fabric, “enjoy this, now.And if this really is the end… Crowley, I – ”

A moan climbed up Crowley’s throat, escaping through clenched teeth.“It doesn’t have to be. If you would just, mm, listen,” he hissed, knowing Aziraphale still was not convinced.Time for the last card in his hand.“Wings.Show them to me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in surprise.Until this point, the talk of torture had only mildly affected him.Once, Aziraphale had led a platoon of angels into battle, guarded a gate of Eden.From his time on Earth and the disconcerting attitudes of his superiors, he had developed a nervous energy in his hands, a hesitating lilt in his speech, a tendency to over-think and doubt.He would do all he could to avoid violence, but that did not mean he feared it.Any fear he felt up to this point had been for Crowley, thinking of how Hell would punish him for his disobedience when they finally caught up with him.

This request, however, gave him pause.To bring out his wings was to make himself more vulnerable than he had ever been around Crowley.Aziraphale needed time, time to process all of this, but time was exactly what they did not have.He looked up and into Crowley’s dark lenses, silently questioning, hesitating even as Crowley’s hand moved up his back to rest between his shoulder blades.“Angel,” Crowley warned, “now.”Like this, so close, Crowley could sense the beating of Aziraphale’s heart, feel how much Aziraphale wanted him.Crowley knew he was considering refusing.If he did, this would all be gone so soon. Slowly, Aziraphale closed his eyes.

Suddenly, the air around them rushed away, finding itself displaced, bookshelves shifting back, and Crowley was enveloped in white.Looking at the pristine feathers around him, he forced himself to focus.To remember the day, hundreds of years ago, when he had ventured down to turn in reports and overheard the murmurs about a captured angel.That day, choking down bitter fear, he had found the right holding cell and peered in.He had almost collapsed from relief when he saw it was not Aziraphale, but it easily could have been, and what they were doing to brilliantly white wings just like his… Crowley forced himself to remember and search for the words._Pull.Tear.Break.Burn.Feather by feather – _he thought as he reached out and reverently touched the tip of one, Aziraphale watching him – _they would destroy you. _

But the words died in his throat.Those pale blue eyes did not flicker with fear; they shone, full of love and trust.Fingertips hovered on the waist of Crowley’s trousers, waiting, and he was tempted to abandon everything that did not involve those fingers on his skin._Continue.You must_, Crowley thought.If anything good could come of his sinful existence – his suffering, his darkness – it was this, now, but only if he could finish what he had started. 

“Your wings, they,” he managed in a rough whisper, and then he looked up at them again and saw the flash of lightning, heard the clap of thunder, the patter of rain: the memory of the last time he had stood under these wings, in Eden.Without his permission, his facade crumbled away and he pitched forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale and burying his face in his shoulder.The angel did not deserve to know the horrors demons knew.Aziraphale had not questioned and fallen and earned that darkness, and Crowley loved him far too much to cast a shadow on his gorgeous light.He could not carry on.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, holding Crowley’s trembling body.“Dear, it will…”His voice faded, as if he knew better now than to say _it will be okay_, as if he knew it couldn’t be.Not because Crowley had convinced him to give up his hope and run, but because Crowley had failed.

Even in an imagined memory, one you had control over, you failed.Too weak to leverage all the wickedness that She cursed you with when She cast you out of Her grace.What was the point, then, of your Fall?The flames, the blackened feathers, the sharpened tongue, the scorched faith: all utterly useless against the inferno that torched your world and killed your best friend.

Remembering where you are, you motion for the bartender.“Same again.”Pick up another fragment of regret.Stare at it so your eyes don’t linger on the empty chair across from you.Wait for the rest of the Earth to follow suit and fall to ashes.

**Author's Note:**

> For the Whumptober 2019 Day 3 prompt: Delirium.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this work; the idea grabbed me while listening to the song and wouldn't let go until it was written. Comments and kudos make my day! Also, you can follow me on Tumblr if you like: [thetunewillcome](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thetunewillcome).


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